Aftermath
by Lisa Paris
Summary: It was her fault, maybe. Or his fault, perhaps...
1. Chapter 1

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part One**_

There was a warning of thunder in the sultry air, and a yellow moon, fat and sensuous. The terrace was perfumed with a soft hint of roses and the comforting scent of damp earth. She lay back in the reclining chair and played with the stem of her champagne glass. The starry sky was a mockery. She had no one to share it with.

It was her fault, maybe.

Or his fault, perhaps.

Phryne closed her eyes and considered. It was everyone's fault, and nobody's fault, and if only it was that easy. The real answer was far too complicated and haunted by ghosts of the past. She hadn't wanted any of this. It wasn't supposed to happen. A new life and a new beginning. She was never going to fall in love again. Loving someone and being in love was a guaranteed ticket to heartache. She was done with the misery and inevitable hurt when the whole thing went up in flames.

Love was fun and frothy like good champagne, with all of its pop and sparkle, an amusing little game between grown-ups who relished the thrill of the chase. The climax, when it eventually came, should be a banquet of spine-tingling pleasure. No provisos and no complications which could lead to disillusionment and pain.

_Until him. _

Until Inspector Jack Robinson.

She reached for the bottle of Bollinger, fingers slipping on condensation. The damned thing was wretchedly empty, and dropped back into the bucket with a clang. It hadn't made her mood any better. In-fact, she was feeling much worse. Biting her lip, she stared up at the moon. There were times when she almost despised herself. So much for being strong, for being modern, she was as giddy as a lovesick girl. _And gutless._ God, she was a coward. The real truth was a bitter pill to swallow. She was living a lie and deceiving herself. Most of all, she was hurting him.

He wasn't foolish enough to suppose she might change. He neither asked nor expected it of her. Instead, he'd grown distant, more formal, and she'd seen the desperation in his eyes. He had the look of a man who'd faced up to defeat– the look of a man who'd lost everything. Resignation and a strange kind of longing for something too far out of reach.

She got up and paced the veranda, her body restless and filled with energy. She'd seen the same broken look in too many men's eyes both during and after the war. It always came back to the bloody war. _Would there never be an escape from it?_ She and Jack…they were both of them victims, always trying to beat back the shadows. Still bearing their pain like a sacrament and attempting to cover their scars. It was hopeless and doomed to failure. Every atom, every grain of sense decreed it. She was trying to outrun the nightmare whilst Jack was still tethered to the past. So different – so very different, and yet both of them damaged and damned.

More champagne, she smiled hollowly. Perhaps another bottle would do it. It would undoubtedly bring sweet oblivion, and an end to the raging tumult in her head. Turning swiftly, she moved across to the doors and paused on the threshold of the drawing room. It was quiet and painfully empty. He would not be coming tonight.

Not yesterday, not tomorrow.

Not since her bloody recklessness. She'd watched as he'd visibly withdrawn from her, and the teasing lilt had died in his smile. The man she really wanted was in love with her. It was terrifying, cruelly paradoxical. The attraction which flared brightly between them had ended up piercing his heart.

With any other man it would be easy. Crook her finger and they would come running. Flash her eyes and they became soft as putty, fell like dominoes into her bed. Not Jack, though. No matter how it hurt him. He was steered by a traditional set of values. He remained resolute with his unwavering rules and his ironclad moral compass. It was typical and horribly ironic, and Phryne felt a sudden stab of pain.

_Champagne…_she straightened her shoulders. It wouldn't do to get sober. She might ask Dot to draw her a bath, and get the ice-bucket taken upstairs. A combination of booze and hot water with some of that frankincense bath oil, and with luck she'd forget the Inspector and float away on a cloud of sleep.

"Miss?"

The soft enquiry was worried and jolted her out of her reverie. She'd been too absorbed in self-pity and hadn't heard Dot enter the room.

"It's getting a little chilly out there," her tone was a little too hard and bright as she drew her silk shawl over her shoulders. "Can you ask Mister Butler to bring more champagne? I'll have a hot bath and take it upstairs."

"I'll do it now," Dot turned obediently, her voice a little distracted. "Hugh Collins called earlier to cancel our date, so I'm not going out after all."

Phryne lingered briefly on her way to the door and tried not to show too much interest. "Hugh Collins reneged on you?"

"There's a big raid tonight at the docklands and all police-leave has been cancelled. Something about rival gang warfare and they're expecting a shipment of arms."

"I'm sure there's no need to worry," Phryne spoke automatically. "Our worthy police force will have it covered. _A_ll police-leave, you say?"

"You know how stupid men get about these things," Dot twisted her hands together, missing the nuance in Phryne's question because of her distraction. "Hugh Collins was thrilled about it. Just like a little boy."

"They must be anticipating trouble?"

"He thinks there's going to be a shoot-out, just like they have in the talkies. Reckons they're expecting casualties, gangsters and guns and the like. Detective Inspector Robinson is leading the raid so Hugh will be right in the thick of it."

Phryne moved swiftly across the room and placed a gentle hand on Dot's arm. "I don't really want that bath any more. Let's go and put the kettle on. I think a strong cup of tea in is in order, don't you? It's always good for calming the nerves."

* * *

Later on, she was to wonder whose nerves needed calming as midnight came and went with no answers. They were sat at the kitchen table and the tea had grown cold in the pot. Bert and Cec had been in a couple of times and Phryne was growing impatient. Dot plied her skill with a needle and occasionally glanced at the clock.

"I've half a mind to send for the car," Phryne tapped her crimson nails on the side of her teacup. The last effects of the Bollinger had well and truly worn off and she was edgy and raring to go.

"Oh, no, Miss," Dot looked up anxiously. "I don't think that's a good idea. They were going to barricade all the roads to the wharf so no one could go in or out. Besides - " She sighed and looked wistfully towards the back door. "I made Hugh promise to call me as soon as he possibly could."

Phryne patted Dot's hand automatically, but it wasn't Hugh Collins she was worried about. The young constable was focused and sensible, and well aware he had too much to lose. Jack, on the other hand… she gave a small sigh and tried not to dwell on the negatives.

The usually oh-so-sensible Jack Robinson had been acting rather out-of-character. He'd been preoccupied and distracted, and more than a little depressed. She remembered his face the last time she'd seen him, and the way his eyes had devoured her. The anguish in them had been palpable and pierced right through to her soul. Everything he felt and wanted was there. His heart exposed and bared open. The force and intensity had thrown her off balance. Their little dance was no longer a game.

No reproaches and no declarations. He hadn't once told her he loved her. Never blamed her for flirting so wantonly or damned her for the type of life she led. He'd pulled away into a dull grey world and built barriers of distance and duty. As though detachment and public obligation could resign him to everything he'd lost. _She'd seen it before,_ Phryne exhaled abruptly, and memories rushed back to haunt her. A certain look on the faces of soldiers no longer afraid of death.

Some seemed to know when the shadow fell. A few even seemed to welcome it. Carrying on gamely and bluffing it out with a gay sense of inevitability. Others became brooding and quietly withdrawn, filled with fear and bitter desperation. All of them were hopeless and fatally aware of a strange mood of predestination. Phryne felt someone walk over her grave, and shivered at the ghastly old adage. There had been too many times and too many men. Ice seemed to form in her breast.

She clenched her teeth, feeling cold and hollow, as though the marrow had been scooped out of her. Forced to acknowledge she was suddenly afraid…_h_orribly afraid for Jack Robinson. She pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet, knocking cold tea from her cup onto the tablecloth. The dark liquid spread like an omen. For a brief moment, Phryne saw blood.

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part Two**_

He could have done with a little less moonlight, but the night sky was still clear and humid. The forecast had predicted thunder storms, but they'd not yet materialised. Nonetheless, the air was heavy, intense with the build up of pressure. There was a strong sense of anticipation, and everyone's nerves were on edge. His mouth twisted bitterly at the parallel. The analogy was uncannily familiar. It was no time to start thinking of _her,_ but who was he really kidding? The self-torment was always present, and ached somewhere deep in his gut.

Twisting the knife a bit harder, he wondered how she was doing. Probably forging ahead with the next madcap scheme, instead of wasting time thinking of him. Jack sighed. It wasn't true, and he knew it. He was immediately ashamed of the sentiment. She was always open and generous, and her sincerity had never been in doubt. _Not to him …_ and he wished it was otherwise. In some ways, he saw right through her. He wasn't fooled by the glittering illusion, or the hurt she tried so hard to hide.

His Phryne was a gorgeous butterfly, tripping lightly over the surface. She fluttered her wings in the sunlight, and left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. Men looked at her and saw colours, desirable and elusive. When _h_e looked at her, he saw unassuaged grief, and a frantic need to escape. He'd seen it before, knew it intimately, however hard she tried to conceal it. Saw it every time he looked in the mirror, stamped indelibly onto _his_ face. It was a memory of mud and fear and blood, and a desperate time of horror and madness. All the images kept revolving on a terrible loop which his mind seemed unable to erase.

_His_ Phryne … his train of thought came to a stuttering halt, and the ensuing anguish was physical. To claim her as a form of chattel was like condemning a bird to a cage. She was running for dear life away from her past, and no one was going to catch her. She did not, and would never, belong to any man. She'd made that much perfectly clear.

He was still mired down in Flanders mud, and felt as though he was sinking. He was up to his eyeballs in entrails and blood, and the never-ending stench of despair. Until the first day she'd sailed into his life, he had been in danger of drowning. Of slipping back into the stinking morass, and a lonely protracted death. For a breath-taking, glorious moment, he'd been swept along by her tailwinds. The spark between them had smouldered and ignited, from the very first look they'd exchanged. Like a dancing kite in a summer's sky, she had led him out into the sunlight, soaring briefly up to the heavens before crashing to earth once again.

They were both too terribly damaged, and pulling in different directions. He could not, in all conscience, drag her into his world, or smother her with any constraints. He wanted… _he_ wanted all of her. More than just a fleeting taste of paradise. Every atom, every fibre of her being, he hungered for her very heart and soul. She filled him with a fire he had never known before, a flame of passion that was almost primeval. A base desire to possess her exclusively, and brand her flawless skin with his flesh. He knew damned well his coldness had hurt her. Perhaps a part of him had even enjoyed it. Some small payback for the dark realisation he was destined to a future alone.

"Sir?"

Collins spoke quietly beside him, and Jack was grateful for the distraction. There was movement down by the gangplanks as a lorry backed up to the quay. Lightning flashed somewhere out in the bay, and soon after, a rumble of thunder. The warm air was dense and oppressive, the veritable calm before the storm. The weather was only a part of it, and Jack was expecting trouble. The last time they'd run a raid on the docklands, three men had ended up dead.

He watched as the wharfies loaded the crates and milled around at the waterside. Not long now, he could sense it, and adrenalin raced in his veins. Melbourne had flourished since the end of the war, growing bigger and a darn sight more prosperous. Expansion caused it own set of problems, as more and more people arrived. There'd been a shift in the levels of violence and the criminal underbelly. With such an influx of money and immigrants, gangland control was a valuable prize. The recent summer had erupted in bloodshed, and a ferment of running warfare. There'd been a series of grisly murders as various mobs jostled for power.

Tonight's raid was the result of a tip-off from one of his gangland informers. The man was a reliable snitch, and Jack believed what he said. A big shipment of arms had arrived at the dock to be moved under cover of darkness. A rival mob planned on seizing the cargo, and leaving their opponents for dead. Stopping the ambush was vital. To both gangs, there was too much at stake here. To the winners, the very lucrative spoils of the fairly new narcotics trade. Jack couldn't help feeling impatient. In a way, it was just what he needed. A pitched battle to work off his heartache. Something, _anything_, to focus his energy, and blunt the endless cycle of pain.

"The signal, Sir."

Collins was urgent, but Jack had already seen it. Three synchronised flashes of torchlight from the lookout at the dockside entrance. It was a go, then. Everyone had their orders, and all police leave had been cancelled. He'd instructed them to seal all the exits once the rival gang entered the gates.

"Signal them back, let's shut the place down. No one comes in, or goes out of here."

He'd barely issued the command, when two rickety army surplus trucks appeared around the corner. They lurched to a halt by the warehouse, and armed men leapt out of the backs. After that, all hell let loose, as Jack stood up and blew his whistle. His call to surrender through a megaphone was entirely ignored by both gangs. The night exploded in a hail of bullets, and simultaneously the heavens opened. Jack skirted around a pile of crates as rain pelted down on his face.

"Fire those flare guns!" he shouted, and the area lit up like daylight. For a second, he was back in the trenches, swept back in time by the images and sounds. _Verey lights, splitting the darkness, and revealing the hell all around him. A filthy nightmare of mud and barbed wire, and wounded men crying out in pain._ Jack paused, and realised he was shaking. _Not now._ There was too much at stake here. Chest heaving, he lifted the megaphone, and called for their surrender again. "Drop your weapons - get down on your knees!"

This time the response was different. The mobsters were exposed, out in the open. A few ducked for cover behind the stationary vehicles, but most raised their hands above their heads. Jack moved guardedly around the crates, and across to a better vantage point. He gave the megaphone to his sergeant, and then signalled again to his men.

"Better call for those Paddy wagons. It looks like we're going to need the coroner. When everyone's in custody, and _o_nly then, let the ambulances in at the gates."

He stared grimly at several huddled shapes. The gunfight had been swift and savage. Many more would have died without the tip-off, and the shootout would have ended in carnage.

"Inspector, the warehouse!"

He looked up sharply, as a number of men broke away, and into the bay doors of the warehouse. The building was a vast, rats-warren of storage, and at least two stories high. The last thing he wanted was a standoff, not when everything had gone fairly smoothly. A shoot-out inside might be costly, and he was not about to risk his men's lives.

"Cover the back," he was already running, giving thanks he had called-up reinforcements. The whole area was swarming with policemen, and no one would be escaping tonight. "Collins, you're with me!"

Someone was shouting behind him as he reached the doors of the building. Flattening his body sideways, he edged around out of the rain. Revolver in one hand and torch at the ready, he warily made his way forwards. The sturdy silhouette of Hugh Collins slipped around on the other side. There was still enough light from the activity outside, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the shadows. He waited, listening carefully, but the loading bay seemed cavernous and empty. Straining his ears in the darkness, he moved a little further inside. Somewhere off to the right, he heard an echo, and the slam of a door in the distance. Advancing cautiously, he tightened his grip on the gun, hoping Collins would follow in his wake.

They clearly had an escape plan, and knew their way through the warehouse. Smiling grimly, he thought they'd be in for a shock, when they found out the roads had been closed. Jack heard footsteps above him, somewhere on the first storey. Crossing the loading bay at a run, he opened the door to the stairs.

The darkness was black and yawning, and he paused, gripping hold of the railing. It was a perfect place for an ambush if anyone felt so inclined. Breath hitching, he turned his back to the wall, and began to ascend very carefully, exhaling again with a quick rush of air, when he finally reached the landing unscathed. _Nothing_. No one took a shot at him. Jack paused, and regained his bearings. The light was a damned sight poorer up here. It was hard to see anything ahead. He could hear running feet in the distance, and resumed his pace along the corridor. It occurred to him then, very briefly, that a part of him was relishing the chase.

_Something __…_a flicker ahead of him, he barely had time to register. He hunched his shoulders instinctively, as three bullets gouged the wall above his head. Keeping low, he fired back at them, unable to see much in the darkness. There was no cover here in the corridor, but the shots bought a brief breathing space. Barging onwards, two more rounds missed him, although one creased a hole in his raincoat. It was a little too close for comfort, and he pulled the trigger again.

"Game's up, there's no way out of here," he flattened into a doorway. "The entire wharf is totally surrounded. All roads in and out have been blocked. Might as well surrender and come quietly. There's no way you can hope to escape."

No answer and he didn't expect one. These men were hardened criminals. They were not about to take the easy option, and give up without some sort of fight. Another volley of shots was his only response, as he reached into his pocket and reloaded. Returning fire, he felt a dour satisfaction as someone swore loudly with pain.

Lunging out of the doorway, he ran to the end of the passageway. It opened out into a walkway, and yet another broad flight of steps.

"Are you there, Sir?" Hugh Collins had reached the top of the first staircase.

"Corridor's clear," he shouted over his shoulder, before forging on ahead.

This time, Jack knew they were waiting, as he peered up into the darkness. More shots, and he didn't have time to draw breath, as he took out the man on the stairs. Taking the flight at least two at a time, he reached the top of the landing. Before he could take a pace forward, a torch shone directly in his face. Flinching backwards, he was totally blinded, but had enough presence of mind to pull the trigger. He dived to the ground, moving desperately, as the next rounds scorched over his head. _Not quick enough._ He was not quick enough, and something punched into his ribcage. He fell hard on the iron walkway, and the Webley spun out of his hand.

He knew he should probably search for the gun, but his limbs refused to obey him. The darkness bloomed and expanded, pressing down like a weight on his chest. Outside, the night sky was ripped apart with a sudden explosion of thunder. The metal floor was cold and unyielding. He tasted blood in his mouth.

_Phryne..._ he could almost touch her, smell the tantalising fragrance of her perfume. He reached for her, tried to call out her name, but she shook her head and faded away.

**_TBC_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part Three**_

A loud clap of thunder jolted her awake, and her elbow slipped off the table. Memories jostled and sorted themselves into place, and then a wave of panic crashed through her head. It was late, or perhaps it was early, depending upon how one viewed things. Just past five o'clock in the morning, and they hadn't heard anything yet. Phryne looked across at a motionless Dot, and pushed back her chair from the table. Although fretful and in need of some company, it would be too cruel to wake her sleeping friend.

The storm was raging in earnest as she wandered into the hallway. Heavy rain strafed the windows like bullets and the house seemed to creak in the gale. Wandering past the mirror in the hallway, Phryne's heart skipped a beat at her reflection. Her eye sockets seemed huge and cavernous in a face bleached white like a skull. _Ghosts_… there were always too many ghosts in a past more than ready to haunt her. No matter how fast or how far she could run, there was no escaping the dead. Biting her lip, she paused for a second, and forced herself to stare harder. Facing up to the ever-present horrors, and consigning them back to the grave. Her nerves were on edge and over-wrought, and took a few seconds to settle. Her image seemed to fracture like a prism, and then her features coalesced into normality.

She took a breath and garnered her strength. The face looking back at her was resolute. To hell with her phantoms and demons – she would not let them beat her tonight.

No more waiting or sitting passively by. She needed to regain control of things. She was a strong independent woman in total command of her life. Phryne straightened her spine and steadied her hand, as she reached across and picked up the telephone. The operator put her straight through to City South, and her call was answered after a few seconds, but the constable who responded was unknown to her, and remained obstinately tight-lipped. The fruitless phone call told her one thing, though, neither Jack nor Hugh were back at the station. She fought back a growing sense of unease that their continuing absence augured bad news.

_She needed the car_…she spun on her heel; it was time to go and wake Mister Butler. At that moment, he appeared as if by magic, or perhaps he'd second-guessed her next move.

"No news, Miss?"

Phryne shook her head, "The station won't tell me anything. I've had enough of twiddling my thumbs. I think it's time to bring the car around."

"Very good, Miss," he hesitated. "Would you like me to wake Miss Dorothy? I think she'd prefer to accompany you, just in case something untoward has happened."

"No, thank you, I'll do it," Phryne forced a smile. The absurdity of everything struck her. Dot, Bert and Cec and Mister Butler, all four of them were treating her like porcelain. Everyone she knew, doubtless the whole world and his wife, they all realised how she felt about Jack.

This silly game she and Jack had been playing, they had never really fooled anyone. _Strike that,_ she added a small caveat. They had only been fooling themselves. Even now she was making deals in her head, and working out a series of excuses. When she rolled up at the docklands and discovered all was well, she could always say she'd driven there for Dottie. This _would_ be the truth, or at least partly true, but nothing like her actual motive. Her real purpose was far more self-centred. In the end, it was all about Jack.

_Damn the man_… Phryne turned away, her eyes glittering. She was filled with a sudden surge of anger. Her life had been going swimmingly. She had not planned on feeling this way. There was a hard knot of fear in her stomach; a horrible, familiar coldness. She was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a bottomless abyss. All her plans and her coping strategies, her new life out here in Australia, all those avant-garde philosophies and careful designs were crumbling into dust around her ears. _If he died, if she was to lose him now…_ the sense of dread was vast and overwhelming. She rested her hand on the door jamb and almost succumbed to her tears.

_Almost_. Old habits were too hard to break, and her customary strength was returning. All too often, it had kept her from falling apart when the lights had gone out in her world. There had been so much grief, her chest tightened. So much bloody anguish and horror. She had weathered a surfeit of tragedy which would have broken a less indomitable spirit. Something flickered brightly inside her, a small spark kept alive in the darkness. Burning stubbornly on in the shadows, like a flame which refused to be quenched.

Straightening, she dashed away the dampness from her eyes, and walked quickly into the kitchen. It was not the time for weakness or self-pity. Her mind refused to say the words; _not yet. _

She must have pushed the door a little too forcefully, and Dot jerked out of her slumber. Her glance flew to the clock on the mantelpiece as she sat up and patted her hair.

"No word. I've tried calling the station," Phryne pre-empted her question. "As an exercise, totally fruitless. I'm done with the '_passive little woman'_ act and Mister Butler's gone to fetch the car."

Dot didn't waste time arguing again, as she pushed her chair back from the table. She nodded once, her face sober, and in-fact, she seemed rather relieved. In this mood, Phryne was a _force majeure_ and wouldn't brook any argument. It was safer and more prudent to batten down the hatches and be swept along like flotsam in her wake. Moreover, it was almost daylight, and they hadn't heard a peep out of Hugh Collins. He'd promised, on his honour, to keep her informed, and must know she'd be worrying by now.

"We'll need hats and coats," Dot stared out at the rain and gave an involuntary shiver. She shook her head at Phryne's crumpled evening attire, and pulled herself quickly together. "You can't go out dressed like that, Miss. We've got time; I'll help you get changed."

* * *

By the time they were both clad in warmer clothes, the sky was a little brighter. The dawn light was the colour of mercury, a dull gunmetal grey.

"Miss Phryne," Mister Butler had returned with the car, and waylaid them in the hallway. He was still wearing his rain-spattered driving coat and had a strange look on his face.

Phryne paused, her gut tightening at the tone of his voice, with one hand still poised on the banister. She knew then what she most feared had happened, and felt her resolve start to cave. Fingers clenching, she gripped hold of the well-polished wood, clinging tightly as though to a lifeline. She was spiralling down, spinning helplessly, and feeling powerless and utterly adrift.

"_M_iss Phryne," Mister Butler repeated, and his tone helped to steady her a little. "I was just on my way to inform you that Constable Collins is waiting. I took the liberty of giving him a brandy. He seems to have had a rough night."

"Quite right."

She spoke automatically, as a consummate hostess, and regained a semblance of fortitude. Biting hard on her lip, she rejoiced in the pain, as her blood started flowing again. For a horrible moment, she had feared she might faint, like a damsel in some dreadful gothic novel. Her hands were still corded with tension from where she'd clung onto the banister for dear life. She was moving, somehow she was moving, across the hallway into the kitchen. Time itself seemed suspended and angular, sharp as splinters and diamond-bright. She didn't doubt for a second that something appalling had happened. Every cell in her body was screaming alert, and her blood was as cold as ice.

"Tell me, Hugh," Phryne refused to waste any breath with greetings or meaningless platitudes. Her attitude compelled him to tell her the truth, regardless of any distress.

"Miss Fisher," he gulped back his brandy, and set the glass down on the table. He looked tired and tense as he faced her, slightly shocked and unnaturally pale. "I wanted to inform you earlier but couldn't get to a telephone…"

"What happened – where's Jack?"

"During the raid there was a shoot-out, and some of the villains made a run for it. The Inspector, he took off after them, and I was supposed to back him up. They headed into one of the warehouses; it was dark, like a rabbit warren. They knew exactly where they were going. Must have had some sort of plan."

"And then?"

"The Inspector had gone on in front of me, and then I heard shots in the distance. He shouted back, told me the corridor was clear and I followed him up two flights of stairs. I'm sorry, Miss…" his voice faltered. "I should have been quicker, run faster. There was yelling and a lot more shooting… I tried, but I got there too late."

_Too late._

Her brain repeated the words, and the constant refrain seemed to mock her. All the signs had been there for a while now. They'd been staring her right in the face. So sure, so smug…she'd been so damned sure, so cocooned in her veneer of self-righteousness. She was thoroughly modern and free as a bird. All hail Phryne, the bright young thing!

The war was over and done with, and the dark days of her past were behind her. The aftermath was a time for forgetting, for fun and frivolity and froth. So much pain and so many tears, she had been so determined to keep moving forwards. Seize the day, and enjoy what she wanted, grasp the cherry, and take a huge bite. _Not over._ It would never be over. The war was too engrained in her psyche. The wounds were as deep, just as bloody and raw. She'd been papering over the cracks.

As for Jack, he was almost symbolic. He'd been a catalyst for all her worst nightmares. The poor man was a living embodiment of everything she wanted to escape. There was a look in his eyes she recognised. She'd seen it in too many damaged soldiers. He was finding it hard to climb out of the mud and get on with his life once again. _At least he had the guts to acknowledge it._ She felt a strange mix of grief and madness. His past might be dark and ravaged with pain, but in the end, he was braver than her. It was easier, far easier to flee than accept. To try and push aside the bitter memories. How much stronger it was to come to terms with them, and concede that they too, had a place.

_Too late. _

She looked up abruptly with over-bright eyes, her mouth pinched with sudden whiteness. For a second, she was tempted to pick up the glass and dash it in Hugh Collins face. The flash of fury was brief and futile, and the constable was not the real target. She was angry at her own wretched cowardice. The truth was, she was to blame.

"Miss?" Dot's voice was kind and full of concern and her arm was incredibly bracing. "Mister Butler's going to pour you a drink and I'm going to help you sit down."

"No," Phryne shook her head and straightened. "I need to know the rest of the story. I have to be strong for Jack's sake. Tell me what happened next?"

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part Four ~ (Next evening)**_

"_We don't expect him to last the night."_

Phryne stared at the bright moon with unseeing eyes as it rose up over the rooftops. The ancient saying seemed to deride her; _'never look at the moon through glass._' She felt a momentary flame of rebellion and deliberately stared even harder. The old superstitions were meaningless now, and nothing could hurt more than this.

"I'm very sorry," the doctor repeated the words, as though checking she'd even heard them. "Doctor Macmillan," he paused with a degree of sensitivity. "Doctor Macmillan has informed the nursing staff you will be staying. If I may make a respectful suggestion, it would be prudent to say your goodbyes."

"There will be no goodbyes, because he's not going to die," her voice was low and surprisingly resolute. "The Inspector has been to hell and back. He's much stronger than anyone thinks."

"With all due civility - "

"He won't die," she restated stubbornly. "He won't die because I won't let him."

"If life or death was as simple as that, then I would never lose another patient. I've removed the bullet and done all I can, but the gunshot wound was very severe."

"I was in France for most of the war, and believe me, I witnessed some miracles. Men given last rites and morphine, but they pulled through despite all the odds."

"Miss Fisher," the doctor looked at her more considerately, a new gleam of respect in his eyes. "We all saw our fair share of miracles back then, but as you well know, there was a flip side. Too many soldiers with non-life-threatening wounds, who succumbed very swiftly to infection. There was nothing we could do to save them, once either tetanus or gas-gangrene set-in." He sighed and shook his head slightly, "I've done all I can to repair the tear, but there are already signs of pneumonia. The Inspector's lungs are filling with fluid even though we've made an effort to drain them. I've made sure he'll get plenty of morphine so at least he shouldn't be in any pain."

The ice inside her expanded and hardened, until it spread through the core of her being. _Pneumonia_… the word was despairing enough to strike fear into anyone's heart. Firstly the long dark years of the war, and then the great influenza pandemic, the deadly illness had been nature's cruellest irony as it swept through the survivors like a scythe. Everyone around her dropping like flies, becoming sick as their lungs filled with fluid, and then the ghastly exhausting struggle for breath until they essentially drowned. _Pneumonia,_ Phryne found she was shivering. The diagnosis had resounded like a death-knell. It had rampaged across the world at the end of the war, and taken so many more lives.

_Not Jack._

Dear God, she couldn't lose Jack. A fresh wave of anguish washed over her. She understood now, with a bright flash of insight, how he'd felt when he'd heard she had died. _She'd been fine;_ she'd informed him defensively, slightly affronted by the slur on her driving. Oh yes, she'd been fine and dandy, and too dismissive of his obvious grief. With hindsight, she _had_ been wilful and blind, and she flinched at the way she had handled things. The raw emotion on his face had frightened her, and made her pull sharply away. For a moment, one terrifying moment, the cage bars had sprung up around her. She'd taken refuge in her usual flippancy, and a stubborn resolve not to change. _'Take me or leave me,'_ the inference had been, with not a hint or iota of compromise. She'd thrown down her challenge like a gauntlet. No wonder he'd looked so damned sad.

"I'll ask the nurses to bring you some tea."

Looking up, she saw only kindness. The doctor's attitude had softened towards her, as he recognised her terrible grief. "Tell me," her burst of anger was gone, and her voice sounded suddenly fragile. "Is there really no ray of hope whatsoever, and does Doctor Mac agree?"

"Doctor Macmillan saw the case notes earlier. I'm afraid her thoughts were much the same as mine. She was called away to deal with an emergency at the Women's Hospital, but will return as soon as she can."

"No miracle this time, then?" Phryne smiled bitterly, and looked across towards the man in the bed.

"My medical experience would dictate otherwise," the doctor spoke quietly, and then seemed to hesitate, as though debating whether or not to continue. "I was in Belgium at the end of the war, and my fiancée was nursing back in England. I was due to go home on leave, about a week after the armistice was signed. Already men were dropping like flies, from influenza, not German shells or bullets. The field hospitals were overflowing, and likewise, all the beds behind the lines."

"I remember," Phryne said. "It seemed such a cruel twist of fate."

"Needless to say, my leave was cancelled, even though I'd been due to get married. Doctors were a precious commodity and we worked all the hours God sent. A week later, I received a telegram - " he paused. "Grace had the influenza. It had quickly turned into pneumonia, and in the space of three days, she was dead."

"I'm sorry," Phryne sighed, she had heard it before, or a dozen other stories just like it. Some of the nurses and doctors she'd worked with had fallen ill overnight.

"Some of my sickest patients recovered, but for us, there was no miracle. Ever since then I've wondered. If I'd been there, would she have survived? If I'd gone home on leave and we'd married as planned, then could it have made any difference? If I had my time over, I'd move heaven and earth. I'd give anything just to have been with her. We may not have had that miracle, but at least I would have been at her side."

"Thank you," her eyes blurred with sudden tears. "I understand what you're saying. It's better to know you've done all you can, than to walk away with any regrets."

"No regrets," the doctor sounded suddenly bereft as he moved across to the doorway. "Good luck to you both, Miss Fisher, and by the way, my name's Andrew Oliver. Please don't hesitate to ask for assistance. I'll check in again later tonight."

* * *

The nurses brought her a tray of tea, and Dot came with an overnight bag. Phryne was unaccountably touched to discover there were some of Jack's belongings inside.

"Hugh took the liberty of going to his house," Dot replied to her unspoken question. "His door keys were in the top drawer of his desk. I hope the Inspector won't mind?"

_Dear God, if only,_ Phryne had thought, as she murmured some quiet reassurances. She would be grateful for any reaction at all from the motionless figure in the bed. Dot made her excuses soon afterwards, and didn't outstay her welcome. To be honest, Phryne was glad of it. She wanted this precious time to herself.

If it was over, if it was truly the end, well then, selfishly, she didn't want to share it. There were too many things she wanted to say, and it might be the last chance she had. She dragged a chair across to the bedside and rested both her elbows on the mattress. It gave her a perfect vantage point. She could barely drag her eyes from his face.

The muted light from the bedside lamp wreathed them both in an oasis of shadows. Other than the faint rasp of his breathing, all the other sounds faded away. Phryne swallowed and reached for his hand, clinging tightly to the long brown fingers. There was so much she wanted to share with this man, so much she wanted to say. This time last night, she had been so confused, and to be honest, a little drunk and resentful. On the verge of making an enormous mistake for the sake of her damned independence. Looking back, she was filled with self-loathing and scorn, and with the dawn had come cruel awakening. Jack was everything – _m_eant everything to her. He was the most precious thing in her life.

Realisation was a double-edged sword, both merciless and strangely liberating. Something dark and suppressed had been freed and let loose, and Phryne felt curiously light. After black years of grief and bitterness, a knot had untwisted inside her. The walls around her heart had been breached at long last. It was down to the man in the bed.

"Jack," she spoke to him softly.

He gave no sign he could hear her.

"Jack," she pressed a kiss to his palm, and whispered his name once again.

Everything had been stripped away from her. All the years she'd spent building up layers. Any trace of façade, any vestige of pride, and all her carefully constructed defences. There was no point wasting any more time. She had no more call for them here.

"I love you, Jack. Can you hear me?" She felt naked and unbearably fragile. It was crucial he should know how she felt…should hear what she needed to say.

For an instant, his eyelids flickered, and Phryne sat up a fraction straighter. _Nothing._ There was no response. His face remained shuttered and closed from her. She waited a few desperate seconds and then bowed her head in despair. She wanted… _she wanted to turn back the clock._ To relive all those wasted moments. To wake from this appalling nightmare and find out it was a dreadful mistake.

No mistake, but a horrible twist of fate. It felt like natures cruellest irony. Perhaps it was some kind of punishment for the reckless way of life she had led. Phryne sighed, she didn't really believe that, but her thoughts weren't entirely logical. They were bleak and stuck on an endless loop, like a spinning wheel in her head. _She didn't want_…she wasn't ready to lose him. Not after she had only just found him. Not when life had seen fit to bestow upon her the most fragile of priceless gifts. _If he lived…_ she started making mental bargains, although she'd given up on anyone listening. _If he lived,_ she gripped his hand fiercely. She would never be so cowardly again.

"Please, Jack," her hope was fading. She was filled with a wash of sorrow. Moonlight shone through the open window casting stripes of silver over the bed.

His hand twitched. She hadn't imagined it. It was probably some kind of muscle reflex. Placing her mouth to his knuckles, she looked up and studied his face. Dark eyes, open and watching her. Phryne's heart leapt convulsively. Please God, let him be lucid enough to hear what she needed to say.

"Phryne?" He sounded horribly weak, but neither confused nor rambling. Moving his head on the pillow, he attempted her name once again. "Phryne?"

"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," for a second, her throat tightened painfully. Hooking her foot around the back of the chair, she moved as close as she could to the bed.

"That's good," he murmured vaguely, and his eyelids started to flutter. "Getting so tired of chasing you… always seem to be running away."

"Not running now, never running again. I give you my word of honour. Just one condition…" she faltered. "You _m_ust fight to stay with me, Jack."

"Stay with you?"

"Yes," she clasped his hand, fervently. "Because you see, I couldn't bear to lose you. I've been headstrong and wilful and cowardly, but none of that matters now."

"Never cowardly. Not _m_y Phryne…"

"Always _y_our Phryne, Jack."

"Always?" his eyes struggled open, and tried focusing on her face.

"_A_lways," she reiterated firmly, and pressed another kiss to his hand, watching with a sudden leap of her heart as a smile quirked the corner of his lips.

"I must be dreaming," he whispered. "Either that or I'm feverish?"

"No, I promise you're not dreaming, and this isn't the result of a fever. I need you to fight and get well again. Jack, can you hear me, Jack?"

Just as quickly, the moment was gone. She watched his head roll on the pillow. The room was filled with the ghastly sound of his laboured struggle for breath. She was frightened then, really frightened. Her heart contracting with terror. All her demons were laughing in triumph and rearing their ugly heads. Words weren't enough to keep him here. Wanting wouldn't stop him from leaving. Phryne knew then, she was powerless. She could sense he was slipping away.

"No," her voice was low and passionate. "No, we have unfinished business. A world, a whole lifetime just waiting for us. Jack, I love you. I need you to stay."

**_TBC_**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part Five**_

Jack confounded the doctors' expectations and lived on past the advent of sunrise. He lay trapped in a restless stupor as the chest infection tightened its grip. The days and nights crashed around Phryne and blurred into a haze of terror. The subsidence of light into darkness was her only means of telling the time. His fever climbed higher as both lungs filled with fluid, and each breath became a life and death struggle. He was poised on the brink and clung on by a thread, as she sat and clasped hold of his hand.

They came and went… people, his parents, and then doctors, nursing staff and physiotherapists. She was aware of Dot's gentle presence, and the reassuring iron-strength of Doctor Mac. Sometimes they managed to persuade her to leave or take care of her needs and ablutions. She would slip out occasionally to wash and get changed, or run a quick comb through her hair. Luckily for her, his parents were kind, and appeared to understand her desperation. She wondered briefly for a moment at their tolerance, and then recalled they were responsible for Jack.

Had he spoken of her?

It seemed he must have done, for there was no degree of fuss or hesitation. They accepted her presence quietly, without argument. It was as though she had a right to be there.

Folk were compassionate and worried about her. They spoke softly and treated her kindly. Doctor Mac tried her best to convince her to go home, for a meal, or a necessary break. No one understood … _how could they?_ Only Jack knew she'd made a promise. She would stay just as long as he needed her. She had vowed to remain at his side.

His Phryne.

_Always his Phryne._ She held onto those words like a talisman, whispering them to him like some sort of pledge, as she urged and implored him to fight. He hadn't been lucid since that horrible first night, but his voice was hoarse from incoherent rambling. Her soft tones seemed to calm him a little, as he twisted and thrashed on the bed. Even worse was the frightening silence when he lay like a ghost against the pillows. She would watch for the slightest movement, her heart almost frozen with fear. Sometimes her head would slip forwards, her eyes closing from sheer exhaustion. She would wake with a jerk, her pulse hammering, just to verify he was alive.

On the third night, his condition reached crisis point, and his body started shuddering with delirium. His breathing became ragged and tortuous as she watched his desperate struggle for air. Nothing she did could quiet him as his fingers plucked at the coverlets. All his sinews were pulled and tautened like wires, as he made a brave effort to fight. _This was it ._.. she was numb with terror. She had seen it before in Europe. One last valiant endeavour to rally before he finally gave in and died. Doctor Oliver had given him atropine to try and ease the strain on his heart rate, but she knew he was getting weaker as the fever reached a critical height. Phryne called on all her old nursing skills as she bathed and gently sought to restrain him. She worked in an invisible bubble, and closed her mind to everyone but Jack.

If this really was the last time, she determined it would be _their_ time. If these truly were the final hours, she resolved they were exclusively his. In the aftermath, when it was over, and she had said her ultimate goodbyes to him, then in due course she might be strong enough to seek out the comfort of friends.

Not now, though.

She replaced the sponge in the blue-rimmed bowl, and squeezed out the excess water. Her eyes blurred with fatigue and sudden sharp grief, as she wiped away the sweat from his brow. It was such a simple act, but so intimate, performed by women since time immemorial. Carried out with devotion and hope in their hearts, as they strove to ease the pain of those they loved. Jack turned his head into her touch, and Phryne let her hand linger. She paused before replacing the oxygen mask, and let her fingers trail across his cheekbones. _Oh Jack ..._ her breath stalled as she stroked him, gently following the moulded outlines. They were so finely drawn, so perfectly sculpted, and she had yearned to trace their strength for so long. In repose, his face was gauntly handsome, almost chiselled and austere in its beauty. The line of his jaw was determinedly square, every plane and angle sharp as a knife.

She was trembling now, both with exhaustion and fear, or perhaps something more indefinable. Leaning forwards, with a sudden impulse, she pressed her mouth to his lips. _No response_ – she hadn't expected one, and in dismay, she found she was crying. For a second, their mouths quivered together and she tasted the salt of her tears. _Not the first, but maybe the last kiss._ The traitorous thought rose unbidden, but this was no bloody fairy tale, and a kiss would not awaken her prince.

She pulled back, and replaced the oxygen mask, and then rested her head against his shoulder. Her iron resolve had all but collapsed, and her lungs were dry-heaving with sobs. So much time lost. So much time wasted. She felt bitter, hollowed out with resentment. God, if ever there was a paradox, then she was the poster girl. The independence she'd fought so hard for had reared up and bitten her soundly. Everything she'd previously wanted was crumbling and turning to dust. She'd once told Jack she was a coward, and never had a word seemed more relevant. All the walls she'd so carefully constructed now resembled a prison instead.

Once upon a time, she had soared through the sky, walked on wings, and taken part in an air show. Ridden elephants through Indian jungles, and done a thousand other bold and daring things. All the while, she'd been running,_ running_... too afraid to face up to her demons, and too much of a bloody coward to risk damaging her fragile heart again. The cruel lords of karma must be laughing at her. They had decided to teach her a lesson. After so many years in Europe, she had come home to Melbourne. It was then she had crossed swords with fate.

Destiny had pitched her straight into Jack's path, and every instinct screamed he was trouble. She had known from the moment she first saw him, that he would never be a part of her games. Jack, with his sensitive, wounded eyes. It had been like staring into a mirror. The image she saw gazing back at her had reflected too much of her pain. She had decided to test the old adage. Familiarity would soon breed boredom. Instead, she'd been falling helplessly... pulled towards him like a moth to the light.

Her breath caught and failed at the analogy. The resemblance was horribly painful. There were references since time itself first began, which compared the human soul to living flame. So bright and yet so very fragile. Bold and vivid, but too easily extinguished. Eventually, with time, the light would dip lower, as the tongue of fire flickered and died.

"Don't leave me," she whispered urgently, filled with a sudden need to draw him closer. She curved into the length of his body, determined to fill his senses with her touch. Skin to skin, the symmetry was perfect. It was as though they'd been made to fit together. She was consumed by the feel and scent of him, and a bitter-sweet awareness of his essence.

_Meant to be._

The words came unbidden. They were really such a corny old cliché. And yet, they had sprung forth so naturally. As though Phryne, at long last, was home. All the doubts, all the ghosts had been banished, for as long as she lay here beside him. As she listened to the hectic surge of his heart, she felt safe for the first time in years.

If she could hold him here through sheer force of will, then no one could accuse her of not trying. If resolve alone was strong enough to save him, then by God, she would give it her best shot.

* * *

Quiet, the room was quiet now. Strands of silver shone in through the window. The heat wave had returned with a vengeance since the storms had blown inland from the sea. Phryne sat up with a jerk of alarm, and realised some time had passed. She must have dropped off against her will, as sheer exhaustion finally claimed her. Jack's good shoulder was a comforting pillow, and had formed a natural hollow for her head.

_Quiet._

The silence was heavy, and a dull dread began stealing through her. Jack was no longer thrashing or raving, and the rasp of his breathing had stilled. For a second, she was paralysed, _frozen_, unable to move or even look at him. To put an ear to his chest or reach and check for a pulse, was terrifying, and quite frankly, unbearable. _It was over_ ... her thoughts began spiralling, her entire being shrouded in anguish. She was poised on the edge of darkness, and trembling above the abyss. For a moment, for another few seconds, she could at least, postpone the unavoidable. If she waited for a while, just a few minutes longer, she could fool herself he wasn't dead.

In the end, time couldn't change things. There was no escaping the inevitable. Nothing would make things right again, or alter the fact Jack was gone. _Nothing ..._ the thought was wretched, and filled her with desolation. She had never felt so raw or viscerally bruised, not even after finding Janey's body. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she was assailed by a sudden rush of dizziness. Her body hunched over in silent sobs as she buried her face in her hands.

"_Don't cry."_

For a second, she could have sworn he had spoken - Phryne thought she was dreaming. She half-sobbed, half-choked on desperate laughter. _Perhaps she was losing her mind?_ If anyone deserved it, then she did, and maybe, in the end, it would be simpler. Insanity might stop her head from throbbing, and help absolve the terrible remorse.

She straightened her shoulders in self-disgust. Wallowing, she was wallowing in self-pity. Regrets or not, time was precious, and right now, she was still alone with him. It was her last chance to finally tell Jack the truth, and break through her self-imposed barriers. The last chance she had to unburden her heart, and to hell with the subsequent pain. Forcing her body to obey was hard. Every muscle seemed loathe and unwilling. Her shaky legs almost gave out on her, as she turned to the man on the bed.

_Still._ His face was like sculpture, carved and silent, a beautiful effigy. Moonlight edged through the curtain-less window, and cast a soft glow on his skin. This might have been theirs, in a different life. Her and him, their skins bathed in moonlight. Pulled together, for all time and irrevocably, like the never-ending surge of the tides. If only she could have trusted her heart, and pushed aside the fickle hand of destiny. Relied on the truth of his feelings for her, and believed in her ability to love...

For love him, she did, no disputing it, and with every last cell in her body. It had taken so long to be honest. To admit she was truly his. Sitting back down in the chair again, she lifted his hand from the counterpane. There was so much to say, so much to confess, but she didn't know where to begin? Sighing, she lowered her mouth to his skin and pressed her lips to his knuckles. The words she said no longer mattered, but God help her, they still seemed to stick.

"Jack?"

She stumbled over his name. It was as good a starting point as any. Just to speak it gave a strange sort of comfort, so Phryne said it again.

"Jack ..."

She sighed again. This was hopeless. Even now, she was floundering, useless. Struck mute as speech eluded her. Was she really this emotionally repressed?

Shockingly, she was laughing, crying again, her body shaking as she clutched his hand tightly. Her eyes blurred with tears and mascara that ran down and dripped off her face. What a state she was, what a sorry state; raw and broken, so horribly vulnerable. All the freedoms for which she'd fought so hard, were crumbling into dust around her ears. The cool and collected Miss Fisher - _was it just a veneer or hard-shell?_ In the end, her deep avoidance of commitment was just another way of being afraid.

"I'm lost, Jack, so lost," she wrenched out the words. "I blamed you, because it was easier. You came along and upset my apple-cart. You made me question myself."

Looking up, she saw he was watching her...

_Watching_...

His eyes were open.

Her heart gave a crazy lurch in her breast, as her breath caught and held on an intake. _Dark eyes, full of pain and questions, compelling her as if she was his life-line ..._

Time stilled and surroundings faded, until only the two of them were left.

Leaning forwards, she barely dared to hope. It would be too cruel to find she was mistaken. Every muscle, every fibre was shaking, as she pressed her fingers firmly to his neck. It was there, weak and slow, but most definitely there. She waited another few seconds. Phryne hardly trusted herself to breathe as she counted the beats of his heart.

"Jack?" her voice was tentative. "Oh, please, Jack, can you hear me?"

His lips moved, as though trying to answer.

"It's all right, it's all right, I'm here, my love," she reached down and cupped his face tenderly. "Because like it or not, you're stuck with me. I'm never going to leave you again."

**_TBC_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Aftermath**_

_Have you forgotten yet?__  
__For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,__  
__Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:__  
__And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow__  
__Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,__  
__Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.__But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...  
Have you forgotten yet?  
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget._

_**(From: Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon)**_

* * *

_**Part Six**_

"_Phryne?" _

Dear God, he was trying so hard, but he was weak and the effort cost him. "Always _y_our Phryne," she echoed back at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

A simple statement, yet loaded with meaning. Not so long ago, she would have hated it. She would have fought tooth and nail for her liberty and the right to remain fancy-free. It was one big fat lie; she'd been living a lie, too weighted down by her fears and memories. The past had become a cruel prison-guard who was keeping her locked-up in chains. Jack was ... _loving Jack was like freedom._ He was leading her into the light again; helping to peel all the shadows away like so many layers of skin.

"Shot - "

"Yes," her voice broke on a sob. "I let you out of my sight for a moment."

"Sorry."

She shook her head quickly. "I'm the one ... _I_'m the one who's sorry. I pushed you away, hurt you badly. Led you on, and then left you alone."

"_No ..." _

Struggling up, he gave a gasp of pain, clutching his chest and falling back against the pillows. His eyes beseeched her with agony and frustration as he lay there gasping for breath.

He shouldn't talk, shouldn't move, and shouldn't take any chances. She really ought to go and call a doctor. His hold on life was so weak and tenuous and she couldn't risk losing him again. A moment earlier, she had been mourning him. Contemplating a life filled with loneliness. Too many lost hopes and crushed opportunities, and a future bleak with bitterness and tears. Phryne gave a small inarticulate cry, and for the second the room swung around her. She was not going to let him be taken. This was one battle death would not win.

"Don't talk, love," she smiled at him tenderly. There would be time enough for recriminations. _It was Jack_ – he was all that mattered. His life was her only concern.

He was weak and sick, but still a little awake, and evidently, not completely out of things. The hand that reached for hers was dry as paper, but tense with a sudden strength.

"_Love?"_

She let his fingers curl around hers. The endearment had slipped out naturally. All the hours she'd wasted mute with despair, but the words seemed so effortless now. In the end, it was amazingly simple. She loved him with every fibre of her being. The brutality of almost losing him had seen off any lingering doubts. One way or another, she would make things work. There was no turning back from this journey. It would be tough, she had no illusions, but she would find a way to vanquish her fears.

"Hold that thought," she leant in and kissed him, lips quivering for a second as they lingered. Pulling back, she saw his eyelids had closed, as his frailty overwhelmed him once more.

Her gut clenched with a surge of anxiety, and she reached for his pulse automatically. The last three days and nights had been wretched – had pared her right down to the bone. _Still there._ His heart was still beating. The steady _thump, thump,_ reassured her. He was certainly resting more calmly now, and the raging heat appeared to have lessened. _Had he turned a corner?_ Phryne hardly dared hope. She slipped off the bed and regarded him. He did seem an awful lot cooler, and the terrible delirium had gone. One thing remained, however, and that was his stubborn tenacity. His hand still clung to hers tightly, refusing to let her escape.

"Jack?"

"Still holding – _s_till holding onto that thought," he forced his eyes open with effort, and frowned. "Phryne, why are you here?"

No half-truths or innuendo. No more games or dissemblance. Now was not the time for hiding away, or keeping her feelings under wraps. She regarded him candidly, _openly._ She had buried her heart for so long.

"Where else would I, where else _c_ould I be?"

"But I thought - " he sounded tired and confused. "I was unkind. I made a total mess of things."

She answered him honestly, "We both did. We panicked; we were both of us cowards. Being open, being vulnerable, it frightened us to death. We backed away, we were scared."

"I wish..."

"So do I," she said quietly. "I wish _s_o many things, but going down that road is futile. The last few days have been a living nightmare, but in a way, they've helped clear my head. For all my pretensions of modernity, I've been trapped in a sort of time warp. I believed I'd outrun my demons, but really, I've been living a lie. You and I, we can never forget the past. The war will always be a painful part of us. Memories ache; and they still have the power to hurt, but in the aftermath, there's only you."

"The aftermath," his face creased with pain. "Feels like it will never be over. I've been ... have made so many mistakes ..."

"Hush, Jack," she soothed him gently. "This isn't the time. You need to rest and recover your strength. You have to promise you're going to get well again, and then we can think about the future."

"Do we have one?"

Phryne swallowed, and her mask slipped completely away. Her defences lowered entirely. Her eyes were soft and shining as he lifted his hand to her lips. "If you'll have me, if you can forgive me - and put up with my eccentricities, then I swear, Jack, we have a future. For as long as we both shall live."

He smiled. It was weak, but most definitely a smile. "Then I'd better keep my end of the bargain. Sorry, so sorry I frightened you. I'll try hard not to do it again ..."

Brave words, but he was exhausted, and sliding back into unconsciousness. Phryne reached over and smoothed back his hair, a sudden lump in her throat. As moments went, it was tenuous, but precious, so very precious. She'd been so afraid it was over. So sure she had lost him for good.

She got up with a sigh and stretched the kinks from her spine, before moving across to the window. Stars were dying on the horizon, and the opalescent sky was pearly grey. It was a new dawn, a brand new beginning. She clung onto the hope it was symbolic. Night was fading and darkness was banished. It was time to move into the light.

_**Five Weeks Later**_

It was late afternoon when he finally awoke, and the warm sun was liquid and golden. Somewhere in the room, there were violets, their perfume sweet and sensual in the air. He drowsed for a while with his eyes closed, simply content to bask in the moment. It still felt like a blessed luxury to be relatively free of pain. Although quiet, the house was not silent, and he could hear the distant murmur of voices. There was birdsong and the soft ring of wind-chimes through the open veranda doors.

It was easy, so effortless to lie here and drift. To banish any thought of reality. As though he was floating in limbo, safe and cocooned from the world. The way he felt now was elusive, and he frowned as he sought to recognize it. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he was filled with a deep sense of peace.

It was hard to remember the last time. So long since he'd felt like this. As far back perhaps, as his boyhood home, or the first few months of marriage to Rosie. The years after that were a cauldron, filled with war and pain and upheaval. Since then, he'd survived on a day to day basis, seeking refuge in a sense of duty. He worked every hour God sent him, and then went home exhausted to bed.

Such a drab way to live, he acknowledged it. The empty house had grown silent around him. It had seemed so accusing once Rosie had gone, he could hardly bear to spend any time there. A housekeeper came four mornings a week, to take care of the cleaning and laundry. He seldom had any visitors and no family close enough to entertain. The house had become an entity and it wasn't entirely friendly. The rooms seemed to take on a life of their own, closing around him in a suffocating embrace. The place was too symbolic of the life he'd once had, and lately he'd come to hate it. Most evenings, he sat there alone with a book while the dust motes hung in the air.

Not like this.

His house was nothing like this. Not beautiful or warm or welcoming. Not abundant with life or spirit, the indefinable essence of _her_. It was Phryne's house, filled with colour, scent of flowers and lovely objects; the rooms bright with sunlight, or rosy and soft, with the muted glow of the lamps. She had suggested, no, _insisted,_ he come home with her, once the hospital had seen fit to discharge him. In fact, they had only agreed to him leaving on the premise she would over-see his care.

Jack shifted slightly, and opened his eyes. Sitting up was a struggle. Catching his breath, he held onto his ribs, and eased back against the wedge of silk cushions. The door to the room was slightly ajar, which suggested someone had checked-up on him, and soft chimes from the clock on the mantelpiece informed him it was a quarter past five. _Four whole hours_, he smiled a touch ruefully. It appeared he'd slept the afternoon away. Phryne had ushered him in after luncheon, and insisted he take a siesta. After settling him down with a book and a kiss, she'd headed out on a mysterious errand. When he'd asked, she'd shaken her head at him, and told him to get plenty of rest. There was no point in pushing for an answer, Phryne in this mood, was inscrutable; her beautiful eyes enigmatic, and reminding him a little of the sphinx.

It was curious how cosy and harmonious they were. This last week had been strangely effortless. Phryne was calm and competent, always caring and amazingly sweet. There had been days, when he was dreadfully ill, he had seen her tense with quiet desperation. It never ceased to fill him with bewilderment that she should care for him as much as this.

_His_ Phryne.

He hardly dared think it.

Despite everything that had happened. Miracles just didn't drop down from the sky. It still seemed like a glorious dream. She was day to his night, a rose to his thorn, and multicoloured just like a rainbow. Everything he'd thought lost forever, she was humming with vibrancy and life.

Talking of which, he heard the front door and then a rush of voices in the hallway. She came into the room like a whirlwind, casting her hat on a nearby chair. "Here you are, sleepyhead, just where I left you," her quick, assessing look belied her light tones. "Did you sleep the entire afternoon?"

"Phryne, I'm fine," he reached out a hand, seeking to reassure her. One of the down sides of this whole, wretched business was observing the anxiety he'd caused. "In-fact I'm feeling remarkably refreshed. I think the rest did me good."

Relaxing, her face broke into a smile, and Jack caught his breath at her beauty. She sat down on the chaise longue beside him, and ran a tender hand through his hair. Leaning into her touch like a cat, he closed his eyes in surrender. "More of this, I can't make any promises. I might fall asleep all over again."

"So long as you wake up," she said, softly, "I won't begrudge you a little extra sleep."

"Phryne - "

"Heaven knows, you have some catching-up to do," she chided too brightly, pulling away from him. "That miserable cough is ferocious. It keeps you up most of the night."

"Phryne," he said again, gently. "It's all right, you know. Remember what Doctor Mac said. My lungs are healing-up slowly but surely. It's just going to take a bit of time."

"God, you must think I'm so foolish."

"Never," he looked at her frankly. "You're wonderful and brave, but never foolish. Patient and steadfast, and a walking bloody miracle... if I told you what I really thought of you, it would take such a very long time."

"How long?" she tilted her head, and attempted to smile, batting her lashes flirtatiously. It was a valiant endeavour at recovery, but he could still see the pain in her eyes.

"A lifetime," he took a deep breath and gambled, slightly surprised at his courage. There was everything, a whole world at stake here. It must be the morphine, he supposed.

His convalescence had been slow and painful, not helped by the ruddy pneumonia. He'd been hampered by the constant coughing and the ragged ache in his chest. At times, he'd felt like a ghost in the bed, barely capable of moving or talking. Even now, he was still exhausted, far too breathless and damnably weak.

She'd been there, every time he was lucid, patiently sitting beside him. His Phryne, his beautiful Phryne, with a tender look on her face. Her spirit was every bit as indomitable, blazing bright, like a fiery beacon. As resolute and glorious as ever, but nonetheless, something had changed. She helped him through the worst of the coughing jags, and her presence beside him was soothing. She seemed to know exactly what he needed, and went about it without any fuss. When his parents came, she melted discretely away, never infringing on their precious time alone with him. She would slip back when the room was empty to read aloud from his favourite books.

Sometimes, when he was restless, he would wake to find her sleeping beside him, those black eyelashes, exquisite as Chinese fans, curving down upon the angles of her face. At those times, deep in the still of the night, he would wonder if he was dreaming. Perhaps if he snapped his fingers, she might vanish in a cruel puff of smoke?

She hadn't.

The dream was reality, and it was easier to simply play along with it; to drift along in a haze of delusion, and a morphine-induced state of bliss. Jack wasn't a fool – never had been. He knew the cold light of morning was out there. At present, he was living in fantasy–land, but he could no longer run from the truth. _She was here_; he could see the small tick in her throat. Still here, and that was the marvel. If he reached out a hand he could touch her, hear her voice if he called out her name. Always beside him, she was devoted and competent. Fighting his battles and watching over him. Like a cross between a nurse and a lover, in-spite of his darkest fears.

She had insisted, when he was well enough, that he should come with her to convalesce. To his surprise, his parents had agreed at once, even seeming to welcome the offer. As for him, he was too weak to argue, and the thought of going home was an anathema. The house was cold and filled with bitter memories, permeated with the ghosts of his despair. Home – the very word was a mockery and the idea only served to taunt him. He had shuddered at the thought of returning, of sinking back into the empty rooms again.

Days passed and he was taken off the danger list, and then weeks, as he slowly grew stronger. A flicker started glowing inside him which was threatening to burn into a flame. It was there whenever he looked at her, small and fragile, yet unbearably precious. It was tenuous and easily broken; a gleam of hope which wouldn't go away.

_A lifetime..._

In the end, it was such a brief statement, but so vital and loaded with meaning. There was a graveyard of history between them, which made the words risky to say. That small gleam of hope was all he had, and she had thrown him a rope to cling onto. He knew now, he was certain she loved him. He just needed her to be brave.

"Jack - "

"Don't be scared," he placed a hand on her hip. "Not now, after everything you've been through. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going to leave you again."

"Don't," she looked up at him urgently. "Don't make me that kind of promise. I've heard them before, and they always fall flat. I'm done with them. Done tempting fate."

His heart broke a little for her. "Are you?"

"You, more than anyone, should know how I feel. You've been there and experienced the horror."

"It's the past, Phryne, over and done with. God, I never thought I would say it. Thanks to you, I'm ready for the future. I want to start living again."

"Me too."

She'd never sounded so fragile. Not even when they'd found Janey. Jack pulled her into the curve of his arms, ignoring the small tug of pain. She felt right, _they _felt right together. Curled up, taking strength from each other. She was jasmine, and softness and smooth white skin, underpinned with a tensile power. Leaning forwards, he kissed the nape of her neck. It felt intimate and curiously sensual. She shivered responsively at the touch of his lips, and his body stirred with desire. Brushing his mouth up to her hairline, his arms tightened as she gave a sigh of pleasure. For the first time since he could remember, he felt joyous and intensely alive.

She turned, and he kissed her properly, cupping her face, as they strained to get closer, every nerve, and every skin fibre tingling, as they cast inhibitions aside. He wanted ... he _wanted_ all of her. To exorcise the last of her demons. To step beside her into bright sunlight and help banish the remnants of pain.

_Talking of which..._

His ribs hitched and he swore.

Immediately, she broke away from him. "Jack, your wound - "

"To hell with my wound," he manfully ignored it, and gathered her back again. "I've waited too long for this moment. You're the only medicine I need."

Eyes smiling, she regarded him saucily, shaking her head with a moue of laughter. "Easy tiger, but _d_o hold onto that thought. I want you all in one piece."

"I'd rather you held onto it for me," he groaned as she shimmied away from him. She was a vision, as she wiggled her dress into place, and ran a light hand through her hair.

"Why, Inspector, how deliciously naughty," she laughed in delight, but then her mood seemed to change just as suddenly. Sitting back down on the chaise longue beside him, she took his hand into her lap. "I _a_m scared, Jack," she was endearingly frank. "More scared than I'm able to tell you. Everyone I've cared for, everyone I've loved, they've all been taken away."

"Phryne - "

"I made the sort of promise we talked about. No one was ever going to hurt me. I would be the only mistress of my destiny. I told myself, never again. _Until you_," she reached out and touched his face. "Until I came back home to Melbourne. One day, I saw you walking towards me. I knew then, I was in serious trouble."

"What changed?"

She shrugged, "I did – or maybe we both did. When I turned around, you were there for me. The whole business with Janey and Murdoch Foyle," she paused and her voice faltered slightly. "You helped me come to terms with the pain. All my secrets, the terrible grief and guilt, for the first time, I could put them in perspective. You never pressed me to talk or open up about things, but somehow, you understood."

"As did you," he said, softly. "You didn't push or ask any questions. Didn't trot out the usual inanities or platitudes, the do-gooders imagine will help."

"Damn the past," her eyes glittered.

"Damn the past," he raised her hand to his lips. "I think it's time we thought about the future."

"The night you were shot," she spoke coolly and calmly. Every word enunciated quite clearly. "It felt like I'd taken the bullet. I took a long hard look at myself, and came to some uncomfortable truths. No more running or taking the easy way out. No more skating over the surface. I don't want to be that person anymore, if it means there's no you in my world."

"I can't share you," he was searingly honest.

"You won't have to," she answered him evenly. "I'm not, and may never, be ready for marriage, but I'm committed in every sense of the word."

"Marriage doesn't have to be a bad thing. Me and Rosie, we were young and unlucky. When war came along, it changed everything. Or if I'm being truthful, it changed me."

Leaning forwards, she kissed him softly. "Let's not talk about marriage just yet, but I meant what I said about commitment. I'm in, _t_ruly in for the long haul, Jack, but I need you to be patient with me."

He took a breath and considered his answer. On the surface, it was blindingly simple. She was all he had ever wanted. She was light in the darkest part of his soul, the most precious thing in his life. Nonetheless, he was a traditionalist, or at least he always had been, but perhaps those old values were starting to change, he realised with a jolt of surprise. The world was different, and _he _was different. The aftermath of war had shaken everything.

_Time and tide wait for no man... _

The old idiom had never seemed more pertinent. If he failed to act and seize this opportunity, then he might never get another chance again. To be hidebound and hobbled by ghosts of the past, or held hostage by a bygone code of duty; it might cost him his ticket to happiness. Those old values could scare her away.

Loving Phryne, it could never be amoral. Not under any given set of standards. There was something bright and crystal clear about her, shining pure and strong, a ray of gold. She was too beautiful and rare to ever be confined, or sacrificed on the altar of convention. She was offering him a gift of freedom, a choice to drink from the chalice of life.

Jack studied her beautiful, anxious face, and never had the answer seemed so obvious. He could no more hold onto his old principles then relinquish his hold on existence. There'd been a time, back in the warehouse, when he'd really believed it was over. He'd lain face down on the gangway and tasted blood in his mouth. She'd been there. _For a second, she'd been there._ Somehow, he'd sensed her presence. Smelled her perfume and felt her beside him, before the darkness engulfed everything. He'd known grief then, and terrible bitterness; a measureless impression of sorrow. A feeling of loss so deep and cold, it had been infinitely worse than the pain.

_All gone. _

He had almost squandered it all, in the space of a few desperate moments. Come so close to losing all that really mattered. So close to giving up and losing her. He would wait until she felt safe again, until her demons were finally vanquished. She was worth every second, every forfeit he might face. Being patient was the only real option.

"Jack?"

He smiled and pulled her into his arms. "I'm right here. Forever, if you'll have me. I don't want to face a future without you. Like you, I'm in this for the long haul. I was hoping the rest of our lives."

"Forever is a dangerous word."

"No more dangerous than losing you. Each time I tried, I failed miserably. You're like a siren, I can't keep away."

"Then don't, Jack. Don't ever leave me."

She pressed her mouth violently against him, and a shiver ran through her body. They kissed, tongues meshing passionately, and he felt her tears on his face. Jack held her rather more gently now, still astonished he might be the cause of them.

"Not consciously," he murmured, against her lips. "They'd have to drag me kicking and screaming."

"Damn, Jack," her eyes were smoky. "If only it wasn't for your wound..."

"Feeling better by the second," he said, gallantly. There was nothing wrong with little white lies.

"Good try," she smiled at him tenderly. "Jack Robinson, ever the gentleman. When you're well, I want you raring to go, but in the meantime, commonsense must prevail."

They settled on cuddling gingerly. Phryne perched on the edge on the chaise longue. Jack gave a sigh of contentment and rested his cheek on her hair. If not entirely comfortable, it was cosy and strangely familiar. They had plenty of time for more intimacy, but right now, he would settle for this.

"You know I love you?" he stated quietly.

It was suddenly essential to say it. In the end, after all the drama, it seemed the three little words had gone adrift.

"Yes," he could sense she was smiling.

"God, it feels good to tell you_._ I've wanted the right for so long."

"Feel free to exercise your rights any-time," she toyed with the sash of his dressing gown. "It's something we both need to practice. Too important to go left unsaid."

"Well then, you had better get used to it. I love you. I love you, Phryne."

_**END**_


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